


Drown it Out

by Agapostemon



Series: Cardboard Castles [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chronic Pain, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Matt Holt has PTSD and ADHD, Phantom pain, Self-Harm, Shiro (Voltron) has PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 07:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9984158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agapostemon/pseuds/Agapostemon
Summary: Shiro screams.He’s not sure who’s home. He hopes it’s just Matt, but at this point he’s not sure he cares if the entire Holt family hears him. Right now it feels like his entire being has been reduced to a white-hot pain shooting down his right arm, from the shoulder to the hand. It’s like a dentist is drilling into his funny bone. Or perhaps some aborted attempt at being drawn and quartered ripped every single joint in his arm out of socket.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings: Self-harm, blood, medication mention, cursing
> 
> This takes place not long after [Somebody Catch My Breath](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9623495) and will probably make more sense if you read that first. Shiro stays with the Holts for the better part of a year following the plane crash, so this takes place during that time.
> 
> I woke up way too early with _horrendous neuropathic pain_ this morning, so here's some vent writing featuring Shiro because he's convenient to torture I guess. I've never experienced phantom pain, but the internet has led me to believe that it's not too different from my own stupid nerve pain, so... hopefully this is a feasible scenario? (Nerve pain is the worst, guys. If you don't experience it now, I hope you never have to.)
> 
> Character Ages for Reference:  
> Shiro - 23  
> Matt - 21

Shiro _screams_.

He’s not sure who’s home. He hopes it’s just Matt, but at this point he’s not sure he cares if the entire Holt family hears him. Right now it feels like his entire being has been reduced to a white-hot pain shooting down his right arm, from the shoulder to the hand. It’s like a dentist is drilling into his funny bone. Or perhaps some aborted attempt at being drawn and quartered ripped every single joint in his arm out of socket.

It’s excruciating, to the point where he’s camped out in the upstairs bathroom trying to fight off waves of nausea.

He presses his back against the wall and grips at the freshly unbandaged stump of his right arm, trying desperately to convince his brain that it ends there. There are no nerves past that point to feel pain. Stop it, stop it, STOP IT! There isn’t even anything to hurt!

No such luck. The pain stubbornly persists.

Shiro grits his teeth together and fights down another wave of nausea, pounding his left hand against his knee in an attempt to divert some of his attention away from the excruciating phantom pain.

Once the nausea disperses, he dives for the bathroom drawers in a desperate attempt to find something, _anything_ , that might ease the pain. Travel-sized shampoo bottles, hotel soap bars, shaving razors, toothpaste, tampons, toenail clippers, scissors—

Scissors.

Shiro picks the scissors up thoughtfully, fumbling to open them with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.

This is a bad idea.

He knows it’s a bad idea.

But he’s desperate and delirious with pain.

So he grips the scissors in his hand and runs the blade tentatively across his right shoulder, leaving a thin cut in its wake. The sting almost feels like a relief against the backdrop of agonizing pain he’s been dealing with.

So he does it again. And again. Over and over, getting a little deeper each time. Honing in on the stinging sensation and the wet stickiness of blood trickling down his shoulder, disappearing across the threshold where scarring and nerve damage cut off most sensation. If he focuses single-mindedly on the sting of the scissors, he can almost block out everything else.

Then a knock at the door breaks his focus and everything rushes back, pulling a strangled cry out of his throat.

“Shiro?” Matt calls in.

“Use the downstairs bathroom,” Shiro says through gritted teeth.

“I’m not here for the bathroom, dingus,” Matt retorts, “Now open up and tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m fine,” Shiro hisses.

“Right,” Matt drawls, “and I’m a fire-breathing dragon. Would you unlock the damn door so I can help you? I didn’t climb the stairs with crutches just to get sent back down again.”

“What part of I’m fine do you not—”

“People who are fine don’t usually scream at the top of their lungs in bathrooms,” Matt points out.

He has a point.

Shiro sighs, grimacing through the pain, “Give me a second to clean up.”

“Nope,” Matt objects, “Unlock it now or I’m picking the lock. I’ve got a corn-holder in my room that’ll pick every lock in this house in a matter of seconds. Don’t test me.”

Anger flashes through Shiro as he slams down the scissors and throws open the door, glaring down his nose at his intruding friend.

And then the anger drains away as quickly as it came, because Matt’s face has gone completely and utterly blank.

Uh oh.

“Matt?” Shiro asks, face still twisted with pain.

“Trying to take a minimalist approach to arms, eh?” Matt says, his words joking but his expression blank, “The less the better?”

Shiro fumbles for words, but pain muddles his thoughts and all he can come up with is, “I-it hurts.”

“Damn right it hurts,” Shiro can’t tell if Matt is angry or scared or just stating the obvious to be snarky. Probably all of the above.

“No, I mean,” Shiro tries to explain himself better, “My arm.”

“I can see that, yes.”

“No. No, I mean,” Shiro grits his teeth, “My elbow. My _right_ elbow.”

“Why would your—” then Matt’s eyes grow wide, “ _Oh_. Oh, shit. Is that why you…”

Shiro nods.

“Okay,” Matt takes a measured breath. His eyes are still a little glazed.

“You all here, Matt?” asks Shiro.

Matt blinks a few times and reaches under his glasses to rub his eyes, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. Brain’s a little foggy, but I’m here.”

“Sorry for scaring you,” Shiro apologizes.

Matt shrugs, “Not like I haven’t scared you plenty of times. Let’s… hm. Did you take your pain meds?”

“Yeah. Gabapentin when I woke up and Vicodin like half an hour ago.”

“Okay. Alright, uh…” Matt scrunches his face in thought, “Once you get cleaned up, d’you wanna come down and play some more Kingdom Hearts? To stay distracted? Your backseat-gaming abilities are second to none. I dunno what I’d do if I didn’t have you there to yell random commands at me every time we see a mushroom.”

Shiro forces a pained smile, “Yeah, let’s do that.”

“You want me to stay here, or should I head back downstairs and wait for you?” asks Matt. He peers around Shiro and points at the scissors, “I’m taking those, though.”

Shiro considers for a moment, then steps aside to let his friend into the bathroom, “Stay with me.”

“Okay, but I get to sit on the toilet,” Matt says, nudging past Shiro with a crutch and claiming his seat.

Shiro lets out a strained chuckle as he grabs a washcloth and wets it in the sink, “Thanks, Matt.”

“No prob, Bob,” Matt says with a shrug, “Hey, I read a really cool article about algal evolution this morning. Did you know that brown algal chloroplasts are basically just enslaved red algae? Crazy, right? Y’know how mitochondria are theorized to be the result of endosymbiosis? Well, chloroplasts are, too, except it’s more complicated than that. Here, let me pull up the phylogenetic tree on my phone, because this is _wild_ …”

Shiro smiles fondly to himself as he pats the washcloth over his wounded shoulder. He hasn’t he faintest idea what Matt is rambling on about, but the sound of his voice and the sheer force of his enthusiasm are enough to take the edge off of the pain, and for that he is eternally grateful.

**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna come say hi, I'm [Agapostemon](https://agapostemon.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr!
> 
> Also: Please remember that I write purely for fun and catharsis. My fics are unbeta’d and minimally proofread. They’re not perfect, and that’s okay. If you notice something I could fix or improve, please keep those thoughts to yourself. If I genuinely want critique, I’ll ask a close friend in private. **Surprise critiques are very stressful and discouraging.** Thanks for understanding!


End file.
